


[COMM] Like, Hocus Pocus!

by Valethra



Category: Hocus Pocus (1993), Scooby Doo - All Media Types, Scooby-Doo and the Witch's Ghost (1999)
Genre: Gen, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 20:19:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16415270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valethra/pseuds/Valethra
Summary: So my family needs to start bringing in some extra income. I've been experimenting with different commission types over on Deviantart. This is my first attempt at a writing commission for Growlie26! Had fun with it, particularly because I LOVE Scooby Doo and the Witch's Ghost (APPARENTLY WE ARE THE ONLY TWO PEOPLE WHO DO BC IT WASNT IN THE FANDOM TAGS)! Thorn was part of my lesbian awakening as a small child. I am glad to be in a place in my life now where I can freely admit to my love for her(No seriously, people have fuckin written for the reluctant werewolf and not for witch's ghost?!)





	[COMM] Like, Hocus Pocus!

**Author's Note:**

> So my family needs to start bringing in some extra income. I've been experimenting with different commission types over on Deviantart. This is my first attempt at a writing commission for Growlie26! Had fun with it, particularly because I LOVE Scooby Doo and the Witch's Ghost (APPARENTLY WE ARE THE ONLY TWO PEOPLE WHO DO BC IT WASNT IN THE FANDOM TAGS)! Thorn was part of my lesbian awakening as a small child. I am glad to be in a place in my life now where I can freely admit to my love for her
> 
> (No seriously, people have fuckin written for the reluctant werewolf and not for witch's ghost?!)

It was a dark and otherwise ordinary night in Massachusetts. Residents slept peacefully in their homes as they prepared to embrace the new day, and the street lights illuminated asphalt devoid of traffic. It was quiet. The leaves of the trees rattled together as if in protest of that oppressive silence.

Other places were not so quiet as the sidewalks. Some places had hardly been touched by the 21st century at all, and in those places, nighttime was not something to be wasted on sleep.

"Is it working?"

"I think it _did_ work!"

"Incredible, Winnifred! Your spectacular talent—"

"Don't be such a suck-up, Mary. ...But I _am_ good, aren't I?"

There was a chorus of unattractive cackles that echoed throughout a darkened cottage. Sparks of magical light buzzed through the air, and a cauldron bubbled over. It was far from quiet in that cottage, as there was plenty of witchcraft to be done and so little time to do it without the prying eyes of the ignorant.

The subject of this particular spell was an old spellbook that had been fastened shut with a little metal clasp something like a shoebuckle. The spellbook, and _he_ trapped within, had not travelled far— Salem was not far from Oakvale. Images of that place he had once called home, with its crisp autumn leaves and ever-chilly air, flashed through a particular man's mind as he slowly regained consciousness. He'd been asleep for so long that he had forgotten what it was like to see. He'd lost the memory of hearing and the understanding of touch.

First came his senses. Then, bit by agonizing bit, came his memories.

He remembered his years of research and writing and the portrait of his ancestor that was hung on a wall. He remembered a museum and a gang of nosy amateurs turned crime-solvers. There was a bespectacled girl among them who had once considered herself a big fan of his work. There was a band, too, full of young women in gothic gear, and that stupid mayor, and that noisy dog. There was Sarah. Selfish, traitorous Sarah. He had given so much to find her only to be cast aside. Only to share in her punishment.

...Punishment. That's right. He had been sealed away all this time. How many years had it been? It could have been days and it could have been centuries. He had no way of knowing.

The time and the place, though, did not matter. His humiliation and his betrayal didn't mean a thing now. He was returning. He was being brought back, being dragged out of that spellbook and given physical form with which to seek his revenge. At long last, he would have everything that he deserved.

 _Ben Ravencroft_. That was his name. And he would wait in silence no longer.

Ben didn't know where he was. It was an unremarkable cabin full of typical witchy gear, and three women he didn't recognize bustled about adjusting this and that. He was lying on some sort of table and could see the spellbook, his former prison, sitting open on a podium by the apparent family cauldron.

How on earth had such ordinary-looking (and frankly irritating) witches managed such a thing? Sarah Ravencroft's book had been destroyed. It had been burned. And yet there it was, resting there as if nothing had ever happened to it. What of Sarah, then? Was she still trapped inside? Surely she would have a bone or two to pick with Ben if she managed to escape. It was for the best that Sarah, at least, remained trapped. Was it the same book, or some other similar tome? No, it couldn't be Sarah's, but if it wasn't, then how had they revived him? He had a thousand questions and not a single answer, but none of it mattered if he could finally be free.

A final spark of magic, and Ben felt his heartbeat begin anew. He could feel the air, could smell the bubbling potion. It was complete. Vengeance would be his— he'd find both Mystery Incorporated and that Wiccan girl and make them wish they'd never met him. He looked down, a wicked grin twisting his features, expecting to see his own hands.

Instead he saw squishy little pads and a set of razor-sharp claws. He saw black fur and slender limbs.

The facts of what he was looking at failed to register even as he noticed that his body felt strangely light. He wouldn't accept it until he saw it for himself. He leapt from the table with a dissatisfied growl. His limbs were still achy and weak and his head still spun from his years of confinement, but he needed answers and chose to ignore that. He had seen a mirror on a shelf a short distance from the table.

When he landed before the reflective glass, he could hardly believe his eyes. He had pointy ears, sharp yellow eyes, and a long tail that moved seemingly of its own accord.

Ben Ravencroft— powerful warlock, noted literary genius, and a descendant of the great and terrible Sarah Ravencroft— had been turned into a _cat_. That reality was staring back at him from the surface of the mirror. He would have laughed at how appropriately witchy it was if he wasn't so terribly offended.

"What _is_ this?!"

That was what Ben _would_ have shouted, anyway. Instead he produced some kind of unearthly howl, a high-pitched and unpleasant hiss. One of the witches behind him groaned.

"Oh, great. _Again?_ Are you only capable of producing cats?!"

"Why are you assuming it's _my_ fault?!"

"We were supposed to have a powerful servant, not a pet!"

One of the witches groaned and slammed the spellbook shut, and that confirmed for Ben that it was not Sarah's.

"Well, if I had let him have his body and his powers, we wouldn't be able to control him, now, would we?!"

"But what use is he if he doesn't have those things?!"

"Who even _is_ that? I thought we were trying to summon Master."

The trio began to bicker amongst themselves. As ridiculous as it seemed, he had apparently been revived by some kind of _accident_. He didn't know what their intentions for him were, and he didn't care. Ben tuned them out as meaningless background noise and continued to study his reflection.

A cat. A simple, common housecat. Who in their right mind would fear him like this? Sure, people were superstitious about black cats. Someone might flinch away if he were to cross their path. But Ben was fairly certain that no normal person would see a black cat and tremble in fear and awe at his power. Yes, he was back. Yes, he'd been released from that dreadful book. But was it enough? No.

Ben Ravencroft wanted to do far more than _see_ the group of children that had stopped his plans. What he wanted was to see terror on their faces as they recognized him. He wanted to watch as they realized that they had not won, and that their battle with the faux-vampire songstress was only a prelude. Just the beginning. He wanted to watch the light fade from their eyes. _Especially_ the bespectacled girl. And if he wanted those things, he could not face Mystery Incorporated as a mere feline.

 _Think_ , he reminded himself. _Think_. There had to be something that he could do. As soon as his thoughts stopped racing from his panic, the answer seemed obvious. Sure, being a cat wasn't ideal. But it was also a good form to use for stealth. He could slink about uninterrupted, easily able to get in and out of small spaces that he couldn't access as a grown man. With a body like that, he could find answers. Being alive and out of that book in any form was better than spending another thousand years in there.

He could get his body and his powers back, couldn't he? Of course he could. He was a powerful warlock in his own right (even if he'd only been granted his powers by a spellbook that no longer existed). He had figured out how to raise Sarah Ravencroft from the dead. He had singlehandedly unearthed the truth about her spellbook, had successfully manipulated those puzzle-loving idiots into leading him right to it. Surely something as simple as getting his true form back would be a simple task. And if _these women_ had learned magic, he was certain it would be an easy task for him.

"Hey! Get back here!"

One of the witches cried out as Ben jumped off of the table and up onto a shelf and made a run for the nearest open window. A pair of hands tried to snatch him and he easily avoided them. In what seemed like only a couple of short steps, he was out of that cabin. He could hear the sisters— _Sandberg? Anderson? Whoever they were_ — arguing louder than ever before as his figure blended in with the night. They didn't bother chasing after him. They'd hardly be able to see him if they tried.

Without much trouble at all, Ben had successfully escaped.

He didn't have to go far before the landscape drastically shifted. He felt like he had walked through some kind of sheet of ice, and then he found himself in a place that didn't look anything like Massachusetts. Had those witches somehow concealed their lair in plain sight? Was it a mere projection of the home they were accustomed to that had artificially changed the shape of an ordinary basement or apartment building? He wasn't sure where he was, but he was far from home.

Ben Ravencroft had a lot of work to do. He would, no matter what the cost, get his powers back. And when he did, those meddling kids would be sorry.


End file.
